Heat floods to my cheeks. I didn’t think anyone else knew, and I wanted to keep it that way. I do a quick scan of the hallway, trying to see if anyone is paying attention to us. “No,” I protest, my voice hushed. “It has nothing to do with him. That’s . . . that’s long over.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” I say firmly. “I haven’t even seen him since he moved out.”

“Okay.”

The subject is dropped, though I still feel frazzled. We get closer to the gym, where the hallway traffic is more congested, and our pace slows significantly. I begin to feel claustrophobic, trapped with Zoe as people crowd around us, trying to get inside.

She doesn’t say anything for a while, but then she bumps my elbow with hers, looking at me conspiratorially.

“Seems like you’ve got your eye on someone else anyway.”

In a way that’s both subtle and quite the opposite, she gestures with her chin, tilting her head, and I follow what she’s pointing to, landing on Mason a short distance away. He doesn’t notice, wearing his trademark brooding expression, and something twists in my chest. She’s teased me about him in the past, but I didn’t think she was actually being serious.

“Not really,” I mumble.

“Don’t get me wrong, I totally support moving on from Damien,” she says, working to keep her voice down. “But does it have to be with Mason Byrne of all people? I don’t trust him.”

Pursing my lips, I think back to when she approached us in the hallway the other day before we went out for coffee. She was clearly sizing him up and took the time to give me a word of warning after. I feel myself stiffen. It occurs to me that she might realize he overheard us arguing the night of my accident and is doing anything she can to discredit him.

“He doesn’t even matter,” I tell her. “I’m not thinking about dating right now.”

Much to my relief she backs off, and we finally make our way into the gym, trailing toward the bleachers. Despite wanting to sit anywhere else, I take the seat next to Zoe, perching on the edge of the bench and watching the other students filing in. Mason sits down in the section to my left, looking in my direction briefly. The sight of him, knowing he’s nearby, is enough to bring me a small shred of comfort.

A large screen has been pulled down above the stage, and Principal Clayborn stands behind the podium. He’s an older man, dancing somewhere on the line between his fifties and sixties, and his hair has gone grey and thin on the top of his head.

When he turns to look over his shoulder, speaking with someone behind him, my body immediately becomes rigid.